Sunday, February 22, 2015


Buttocks as big as mountains. Perfectly formed, splendid things. The villagers made a pilgrimage there every year before the harvest, climbing to the top of the buttocks and kneading them all together. Nobody knew if they were connected to a giant person or something else underneath the ground, and nobody dared go on an underground excavation mission. Some things you just didn't mess with. But they were alive, that was for certain. They reacted to touch and to heat and to cold, breaking out into great basketball sized goosey pimples when the sun went down and the winter chill set in.

No comments:

Post a Comment